


Lemon Drizzle

by orphan_account



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Hatari - Fandom
Genre: Baking, Fluff, Slightly Smutty, starts off soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 19:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21082052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Matthías decides he wants to bake a cake, a lemon drizzle cake...





	Lemon Drizzle

With an empty glass in one hand, you pad through the living room to reach the kitchen, where Matthías is stood over the counter, spoon in hand, stirring the cake mix. He barely glances at you as you wander in, heading straight for the fridge to fill your glass up, instead he focuses on not spilling the mixture everywhere - he did that last time, and the cake was an utter disaster. Glass full, you turn back to watch him mix. With every turn of his arm the veins running beneath the skin seem to pop out further, and you choke down a comment on it with a gulp of water.

“What flavour cake is it?” you ask, leaning your forearms on the dark, marble counter to get a better view of those arms.

His blue eyes flicker to you for a moment, the low sunlight through the window making them seem almost liquid, then he merely shrugs his shoulders.

“I don’t know yet. It’s just a plain recipe, Klemens gave it to me- said I can add anything I want to it after for flavour,” he clarifies, flicking a spot of flour off his apron - which you’re pretty sure belong to Klemens, also.

Taking another sip of water, you watch him clatter around in the cupboards for the cake tin, then - once he’s found it - spoon the mixture into the tin, without greasing it first. Still, you don’t want to say anything, it is his hobby after all - and mistakes are part of learning, right? Once the cake is happily sat beneath the light of the oven, he sets the timer and turns to you with a smile, proud of his cake.

“What flavour do you think? We have 20 minutes before it’s done,” he asks, opening the cupboard where he keeps all his baking stuff. You follow him there, glass of water still in hand, and inspect the contents.

He’s not quite reached the stage of making icing from scratch, so there’s an entire shelf of those little powder sachets, just add water and you’ve got your icing. But, hm, which flavour should you go for? There’s a few chocolate icing sachets left from the great chocolate disaster last month, but you’re not in the mood for chocolate, so instead you nod to the lone, yellow packet at the back.

“Lemon?” he asks, pulling it out of the cupboard, “I’ve not tried this one yet,”

As he squints at the instructions for use, you go back to sipping your water, watching him as he gets the precise amount of water he needs. The whole thing takes barely 2 minutes, and soon he pushes the bowl of icing over to you with an order to try it.

Raising one brow, you glance down at the white, sticky substance in the bowl. You know it’s icing, but it certainly doesn’t look like it, but it seems Matthías hasn’t quite picked up on that yet. You poke one finger into the icing, and raise it to your lips, knowing the sight of it on your finger is, frankly, rather lewd. 

But where would the fun be in acting embarrassed about this? No, instead you decide to play a little game with the icing, and relish in licking it slowly off your finger, making sure to let some dribble off your lips as you stare right into Matthías’s eyes.

You can almost pinpoint the moment he realises what you’re doing, for his eyes seem to flash darker, his brows furrow a little, his lips press together, and that little vein on the side of his head pulses a little. Smirking to yourself, you pull your finger from your mouth with a satisfying pop, and push the bowl back to Matthías.

“Hmm,” you hum, “It’s very tasty, Matthí, it’s a little thin though - I prefer it thick, you know,”

He doesn’t move to take the bowl back, his hands cling onto the counter top, white knuckled, as he struggles to regain his composure. Ha, it’s so easy to make him so.

“Unless you like it runny, and messy...it is your cake after all,” you continue, pulling your glass back up to your lips to take another sip of your water, but before you can drink it, Matthías has removed it from your grip and set it down rather firmly on the side.

A moment's pause, and then he’s taking a step towards you, eyes dark and promising punishment for your teasing. Equal to his steps forward, you take them backwards, until you feel the edge of the counter at the far end of the room dig into the small of your back, trapping you between it and Matthías.

  


He stares down at you, eyes unforgiving, as one hand snakes up your body to cup your chin, tilting your head up to face him properly.

“Tease,” he hisses, leaning in to press a kiss against your lips. Although his lips are soft, and feel almost like silk against yours, there is a hardness to the kiss, almost as if he is made of steel. Still, it sends jolts of warmth racing through your body, and you suppress a whine as his tongue flickers against your lips.

Then he’s gone, leaving you with your eyes half closed to recover from the kiss. Thank god for the counter behind you, supporting your weight as you feel the strength in your legs give way again at the thought of his burning gaze. When he returns, he has removed the apron, leaving him as a wall of impenetrable black, and has brought the bowl of lemon icing with him.

His eyes focus on your chest for a moment, the low cut of your shirt exposing your skin to his gaze, then he looks back up to your face, one hand fastening itself into your hair to pull it back. Now your throat is exposed, and your eyes close with anticipation of his lips pressing against it - but it’s not his lips that you feel against your skin, no, it’s a drizzle of the icing that runs down the skin of your throat to pool at your collarbone, some of it even running even further down to coat your chest.

The icing is cold against your skin, the feel of it sends shivers through your body. Seeing you squirm a little, Matthías tightens his grip in your hair, the pressure of his fingers around your scalp making your freeze a little - your own hands cling onto the countertop for dear life, tensing as he continues to drizzle more on you.

Then, after a moment of nothing, his lips find your skin, sucking the trails of icing right off with a flick of his tongue. Holding back a moan, you lean into his warmth, revelling in the shoots of weakness through your nerves with every lick of his skilled tongue - he even lingers for a while at your collar, supping up the pool of liquid icing with almost feather like flutters of his lips and tongue.

“You’re right,” he rumbles against your skin, the movement sending shockwaves straight to your core, “It’s delicious,”

Unable to nod, you let out a little whine of agreement, and feel him chuckle against you.

“Not so teasing now, are you?” he laughs, “But I think this might be better enjoyed without  _ this  _ obstructing me,”

Removing his hand from your hair, he tugs at the fabric of your shirt, asking permission to remove it - to which you consent to immediately.

  


With your shirt now discarded and the cake long since forgotten about, you watch as Matthías dribbles more of the icing on your chest, this time aiming it over the peaks of your nipples. He takes his time now, giving the icing a moment to begin to set, which it does quickly despite the heat roiling off your body. As it set it seems to tighten on your skin, so much so that it’s almost a reflies when he leans in to remove it with his lips and tongue and  _ teeth _ .

He does this again and again, sometimes spooning it into your mouth just to watch it run down your chin, and the warmth growing inside you doesn’t falter once, growing more extreme and desperate with every passing moment.

By now it’s not only his lips that are working you, for his hands have now gained a mind of their own and start to snake beneath the waistband of your pants, pinching at flicking at the skin there as he delves deeper and deeper and-

The bleep of the timer makes both of your freeze. The 20 minutes are up, and the cake is cooked.

  


Scowling at the oven, Matthías untangles himself from you and stomps over to it, barely remembering to grab the oven gloves in time to pull it from the oven. He sets it down on the side with a glare, half at the burnt edges and half at the fact it interrupted your time together, but he leaves it alone to cool, pausing only when he sees the discarded bowl of icing.

“Empty,” he sighs, coming to a stop in front of you.

Absentmindedly you lick a small bit of icing from the corner of your lips, aware of his eyes watching your every movement.

“We can always make more,” you smirk, reaching for your shirt to put it back on.

Frowning a little as your cover yourself up again, Matthías scrapes what’s left of the icing onto his finger and approaches you, pressing his finger against your lips, then slipping past them into your mouth. Once it’s in there, your swirl your tongue around his finger and revel in the taste of both the sweet lemon tang and the warmer, muskiness of him.

“I don’t know why you put that shirt on again,” he raises his brows at you, “Because you’re only going to take it off again so it doesn’t get messy,”

Sucking the last of the icing off your finger, you push it out using your tongue and loosen your grip on the counter behind you. The dark gleam in his eyes sends a thrill racing through your veins, and you know  _ exactly  _ what mood he’s in now, and exactly what he’s going to do with you. Slowly, he takes a small step back, giving you room to maneuver a little, then he nods at you, giving you your favourite order:

“On your knees, love,”


End file.
